


For Science

by beanarie, hophophop



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Gen, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Science Experiments, okay yes technically it's mpreg but that's really not the point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-08 04:59:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 11,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5484440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanarie/pseuds/beanarie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hophophop/pseuds/hophophop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We are going to have a baby,” she says. “For science.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (posted on tumblr 3/4/15)  
> the writers hinted of a future development that’s both joyous and bittersweet and i was like sherlock is prego  
> and A was like write it

Joan has no room for flowery phrasing, anger, confusion, exasperation… any of it. Only “What.”

Sherlock bites his thumb nail. “And well it’s your dna they used to create the egg, of course. Who else could it have been? Moriarty? HA. Kitty would never have been on board, I’m sure.”

“Whereas I would be thrilled beyond belief,” she says numbly.

His hands fly around agitatedly like fighting birds. “We never thought it would WORK. You must understand. More variables than could even be quantified. The chances were astronomical.”

“I understand.” The surface facts, she means. Literally nothing else beyond the surface facts. “You’re pregnant and I’m the… father.”

“Obviously the experiment must be allowed to continue to its natural conclusion, whatever that might be.” He keeps using language like 'obviously’ and ‘of course’. She can feel a jag of pure hysterics coming on any second.

“Never mind that it might kill you,” she mutters. Internal organs cloned, nurtured, and implanted in a lab. An ovum coaxed into activity by her hair follicles, or, spit or something. What could go wrong?

“Oh, I’m sure it wouldn’t,” he sniffs.

And here it comes. She claps a hand over her mouth, her thoughts running in frantic circles. WHEN DID THIS BECOME HER LIFE.

“We are going to have a baby,” she says. “For science.”

He shoots her a look with so much hope and gratitude she has to go and lie down for three hours.


	2. For Science

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After I encouraged beanarie to hop aboard the mpreg train (which, btw, was entirely her idea in the first place, I am just an innocent bystander/enabler), we discussed possible baby names, and I ran with one of her suggestions. you know. for science.

When Violet Hui Watsonia Forensic Science Holmes is three, she wants to play catch in the park every day, which amounts to lots of running after the ball. Given the number of variants generated from her (disputed) full name in those years, it takes a few tries before her parents determine the sequence of sounds to which she'll reliably respond when it's time to go home. She doesn't notice the sudden straining of buttonholes across Sherlock's chest or Watson's muttered "at least I kept it off the birth certificate."

When Science is five, she loves ghost stories and tells her kindergarten teacher (because Watson insisted they at least try the public schools instead of defaulting to homeschooling even though she knows homeschooling is going to happen eventually. She predicts third grade and tells Sherlock fourth, but they're all surprised by a string of remarkably compatible teachers and classmates, and it's not until Science is eleven that she declares she's done with all that, let's blow something up already) that she lives in a haunted house and her babysitter is a bald man with a hole in his head and no body named Angus.

When Science is eight it occurs that her household's frequent refrain may not always be short for "Forensic Science." Or even, in fact, refer to her. She's not 100% certain that's true; further study is required.

When Science is ten, they have to go away for a month, and sometimes Watson is with her and sometimes Sherlock. Their hiding place has excellent acoustics, and she practices her violin for hours every day for the glorious sounds she can make. Then there's an explosion nearby that shakes dust from the ceiling and many police officers scramble through, and they're bundled into an empty moving truck for what feels like days. When they're finally released, she hears somebody say the DNA is a match, and Watson says "good riddance" but is so angry Sherlock sends her off to wrap things up even though Science knows he usually likes to be the one to explain how the case ended. This time he just sits with her up on the roof in the lee of the beehives (and the fresh air is great but the thin scrape of her bow is all but lost in the the vast cluttered soundscape of the city around them) and pretends to listen to her play until she starts intentionally making mistakes to get his attention, and he rewards her with a half-quirk of eyebrow and mouth.

When Sci is fourteen she's tired of single stick and combinatorics and file folders and secret passwords and bees. She leaves her phone plugged in at home which Sherlock should understand to mean "Leave me alone" because that's what Watson does once or twice a year, and goes to a coffee shop in Queens with a battered copy of Octavia Butler's _[Xenogenesis](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lilith's_Brood)_ and then goes to a movie and another coffee shop and tries to sneak back into the brownstone at 2am and overhears Watson through the kitchen window, "It's all right. She knows what we've taught her. She's all right."

When Sci is sixteen, she finds the publications documenting the research that created her, authored by one of Sherlock's more obscure pseudonyms, which she deciphers immediately. That it happens to be her first weekend left alone in the brownstone is incidental to her extensive snooping in both parents' rooms (Sherlock had long assumed such snooping was over and done years before and that his false identity was impervious. Watson had long practice of not leaving things anywhere she didn't want someone else to see.) (Years later Science learns that her parents were called away that weekend to prevent her uncle from succumbing to an unofficial death penalty. Sherlock won't discuss it and vows she'll never meet him. She doesn't tell him she already has.)

When Science is seventeen, she's grown used to the idea of her unusual birth and is kind of impressed but decides to give them a hard time anyway on principle. She slaps a copy of one of the journals featuring the project on the lock room table one afternoon and says sternly "You two have some explaining to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hui was originally from sanguinity, who made it Joan's middle name in "[Telling the Bees](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1372351)." I later borrowed it for Joan's birth father's name, first in "[Trade Off](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1565849)."


	3. Chapter 3

Violet _Katherine_ Hui Watsonia Forensic Science Holmes, and it gets worse.

Marcus calls her “Sci” because after she’s born Joan can’t stop calling her Science, even when she tries, and he takes his cues from her, but it needed something to be more of a proper nickname. When she’s an infant, he has brand new set of keys cut just to dangle in front of her face and let her throw around as needed.

Leonora Hudson most often calls her “My barnacle”. From toddler to little kidhood, she hangs from Leonora’s back while she does her vacuuming.

Gregson just goes with “Kid”. He’s a straightforward dude and she’s the only one around, so. He’s the first to let her get behind a wheel. She’s eleven, and she has the time of her life in a nearly deserted parking garage.

Alfredo calls her “Rebel”, mindful that no matter what choices this girl makes, she’ll be refusing to conform to something, whether it’s the society her dad finds so many reasons to rant about, or the dad himself.

Kitty calls her "Poppet", on Skype and in letters for the first few years. The first time they're actually able to meet in person, she tells her that it was what her favorite aunt, Tamsin, called her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The funny thing about living with Sherlock Holmes; waiting for disaster isn’t fatalism, it’s realism.

Following Sherlock's confession, Joan starts hearing the word alleles so often it could be the root of an entirely new language. It's all he'll talk about, phenotypes, dominant genes. He's especially fixated on appearance. The shape and color of the eyes, the texture of the hair. He pesters her to cough up pictures of every blood relative who's ever sat in front of a camera. He scours the internet for photos of people with mixed Northern European and Chinese ancestry, and he covers a wall with them. 

"Behold!" he says, gesticulating proudly. "Somewhere on this wall is likely the features that will combine in a... Holmes-Watson hybrid."

Joan pops another antacid. She's getting past the point of what is medically advisable, but she feels confident that her PCP would let her off the hook, given the circumstances.

The funny thing about living with Sherlock Holmes; waiting for disaster isn't fatalism, it's realism.

They're in East New York, on their way back to the L train after an unsuccessful attempt to persuade a Xerox repairman to give up his cousin's location. Audibly irritated by the waste of time, Sherlock jogs ahead. Unable to catch up comfortably in her shoes and unwilling to start something by pointing out what he's doing, she lets him go. He's half a block ahead, still fully in her field of vision when the car pulls up and two men get out.

She's ripping off her shoes as one of the men holds Sherlock's arms and the other lands a punch in his solar plexus. She's wrapping her fingers around the baton and letting her bag fall as Sherlock breaks out of the hold and swerves to take another fist to the upper back.

Sherlock crumbles to the ground just as she arrives and there it is, the tableaux she's been waiting for all this time. 

The next few moments pass very quickly. She's practiced with the stick so long she doesn't have to think about her training. She just moves. Soon the bad guys are diving for the car and it's pulling away. Breathless, she takes the phone out of Sherlock's pocket to dial 911. He's still, but there are no signs of head injury. He may have passed out from the pain.

"We're on the corner of Irving and Decatur. My partner is nineteen weeks pregnant. There was a beating. Hurry."

Explaining the mechanics of it all is less amusing than excruciating when Sherlock might be hemorrhaging internally. She speaks plainly, leaving no room for disbelief, and thankfully the EMTs follow her lead. They tell her that his blood pressure is stable, and her knees go weak with relief.

One of them runs to retrieve her belongings before they go. As he goes to pass them off, he asks, "Why are you holding your arm like that?" 

She looks down in confusion. "Um."

Some indeterminate amount of time later, she meets Alfredo in the hallway outside Sherlock's hospital room, a bottle of pains meds rattling around in her coat pocket and a denim-blue cast ending a few inches before her right elbow.

"Hey, slugger. I know you got my texts, but you'll wanna hear it again," he says. "There's some bruising, that's it. He'll have a hard time getting around for a while. Doc's making him stay overnight for monitoring, but you know the baby's strong." He chuckles. "It's your kid, too--how could they not be?"

She gives her thanks in a sort of haze, and finds herself enfolded in his arms, a pretty good indicator that she's a mess. "So he's been sleeping about an hour. I'm gonna take off, but I'll be back in the morning to drive you guys home."

She nods, distantly registering that her staying isn't even a question, and accepts Alfredo's shoulder squeeze as she enters Sherlock's room. He's curled up on his side, a band around the barely pronounced curve of his stomach holding the fetal heart monitor in place.

She sits awkwardly, feeling a weird disconnect between her brain and body. Her kid. No one's put it quite that way before. She didn't think of it as a potential life, more a dangerous medical condition she was accidentally responsible for and would most likely kill her best friend. Not a chubby blob sitting in a high chair and throwing ergomic baby utensils covered in green and orange goop. Not an eight year old planting their feet and insisting that bed time isn't necessary. Not a young adult calling to vent about this professor who just can't stop rambling.

When Sherlock told her about the pregnancy, she was certain it would never last to the ten week checkup, then it did. Hearing the heartbeat didn't change anything. She'd seen tumors with a pulse before. And anyway, it wouldn't make it past the first trimester. Then it did. Sherlock would never edit his questionable sense of self-care to account for a fetus growing inside him, except he started resting more almost immediately. All-nighters are still more common than not, but now he'll sleep the following day, rather than power through another seventy-two hours then stay down for so long he forgets what the solar system is supposed to look like. He's been stealing her vegetables, too. She'd assume it's for experiments or a passive aggressive protest, if she hadn't seen the increased amount of color in his omelets.

Sherlock stirs, blinking to wakefulness, as she begins letting go of three and a half months of tension and fear.

"Are you all right?" he asks, and the urge to scream comes on so strong she practically vibrates with it. She covers her eyes, letting out a brief, high-pitched laugh. 

"I believe the time has come to notify our colleagues about my delicate condition," he says. 

She's so proud of him it blows her away. Instead of saying as much, she nods, a few more times than she means to. "Great idea."

"Watson," he says quietly.

"How is this going to _work_?" She remembers feeling similar once, staring out of Marcus's window as Sherlock told her she didn't have to move on to the next sober client, that they could stay together, that he would teach her and they would be partners.

He rolls onto his back, grimacing. "How does anything work?"

 _Most things don't._ She thinks of her mom and her baba, whose commitment to each other and their children couldn't weather his illness, and her mom and dad, who presumably stay together because ending a relationship that's spanned four decades would involve too many inconveniences. "I don't think I ever thought of myself as a parent," she confesses. "I wasn't into playing house like my friends. I liked tea party and..."

"And doctor, I'm sure."

She lets him have a tiny smile in acknowledgment. "My whole life I've been drawn to short term problems to fix and help people move on. Not a kid. Not a human being to create from scratch, a responsibility to take on for the rest of my life." But then, she never really saw herself with a life partner, either. Before he can do something like rattle off the number of unplanned pregnancies that end in successful marriages (even if it's a small fraction of the whole, it's still a lot of families), she looks at him squarely. "You can't walk away from this. You understand that, right? We do this, you're stuck. Basically forever." 

She's not looking for a promise. He promised to keep her safe from Moriarty at all costs, ten days before she was taken off the street at gunpoint. He promised to tell her if he was on the verge of relapse, a few weeks before he stole heroin from a suspect's home and left the country with it. 

He also promised that he would never change, would never stop putting his own needs first, and well, look where they are now. She holds her breath.

"I believe, Watson, there is no limit to what you and I can accomplish." He smiles slightly. "Including curtailing my occasionally transient nature."

It's not a thoughtless pledge to move a mountain on his own. It's faith that they can find a way around one, together. He couldn't have said anything more perfect. She wipes away a tear, sniffles, and reaches for a tissue. She can feel his almost unblinking stare.

"You get the late night feedings," she announces, stopping to blow her nose. "All of them."

"Shouldn't be a problem," he says.

They fall silent, both listening to the same thing, a tinny beat twice as fast as an adult heart.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i said i wanted casual fwb joanbell with no shame + oblivious sherlock and A said put it in science verse

One time when Science is around three, Joan comes downstairs after putting her to bed. Sherlock is fucking with his locks or Clyde or a bomb-like device from that friend which he finally asks not include actual explosives. “You’re going out,” he says, slightly surprised to see her with her coat and bag. They don’t have a case and she hadn’t mentioned any plans.

“Yeah,” she says, flipping her hair as she turns toward him. “Rough day. Thought I’d go have sex with Marcus.” Under his flummoxed stare, her smile widens to a grin. Then she breezes out the front door, telling him not to worry about her being back in time to give Sci her breakfast. “I never spend the night.”


	6. Chapter 6

"Actually, no, um," Joan said to interrupt Gregson's startled attempt to congratulate her, and Sherlock lurched forward to tap his finger smartly on the name at the top of the lab report he'd placed on the captain's desk.

“Holmes, S,” Gregson reads, then sits back in his chair, his gaze going unfocused. "I don't get it."

“I empathize,” Joan mutters. Sherlock glares at her. Her responding expression includes none of the betrayal but more firmness as she waves a hand in Gregson’s direction. _You made this bed, remember?_

Sherlock’s arms go tight at his sides and he lets out a quiet harrumph before he lets his posture relax slightly. “Well, Captain. The answer to the question you have yet to articulate is… science.“ Joan smacks him in the arm. “Fine. Yes. I’m pregnant. It began as an experiment to see if it was possible, something of a physiological Mount Everest. Now I’m well into my second trimester and it’s safe to say Watson and I are having a baby.“

Gregson’s eyes lock onto Joan beseechingly, but all she does is say, “Yeah. This is actually happening.“


	7. I am the Hero of This Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one is about reconciling joan’s season 3 superhero manpain arc with her choice to be a parent. set about 5 years in the future.

Holmes awakens to an empty house at almost half past 12 pm. He’d been permitted the indulgence–-not so much of sleeping in, more staying up–-because a young man’s life had hung in the balance. But as of the previous evening, Austin Ortega was safe home with his family, and it was time for Holmes to become reacquainted with his favorite couch. Now he is awake and, somewhat less expectedly, alone.

In the absence of anything pressing causing inspiration for how to pass the time, he chooses a methods of loci experiment. He’s absorbed nearly an hour of American programming when the other two thirds of the household darken the doorway of the media room.

“See? There he is,” Watson says. It’s tone fourteen - Deeply Reassuring, not a hint of anger or exasperation. That along with the heaviness of her steps indicating that she’s carrying Science tells him to put the screens on mute.

What follows is a tumult of hurried footwork, and a sobbing four year old launching herself at him bodily and throwing her arms around his waist. Physical affection will never come naturally to him, but he’s absorbed numerous studies on the benefits of touch, more than enough to convince him of the need to fake it, as it were, for his child’s sake. He lifts her up and she clings, trembling. “All right, Forensic Science?”

Watson approaches and strokes Science’s hair. “Tortilla chip got stuck in her throat during lunch,” she says through a sympathetic frown. “She’s fine, but a little freaked out.”

“Choking can be quite the terrifying ordeal,” he says. Science bumps her forehead against his shoulder twice, conveying her agreement.

“She’s fine,” Watson repeats, then switches back to tone fourteen. “Do you want me to get out my bag and take a look at your throat?” The sniffling slows to a stop. Science mumbles an affirmative. She’s always enjoyed being Watson’s patient. 

By dinner, Science is reminding them of her injury by responding to all inquiries with a harsh stage whisper and coughing when she feels they've forgotten how aggrieved she is. They order Indian and let her consume nothing but two mango lassis and a small portion of jasmine rice without intervening. Her spirits are high. Her energy levels haven’t flagged. Within two days, one would think nothing had happened.

It’s with some surprise a week later that he takes the news that Watson wants to send their child to Boston.

“Just for a little bit,” she says, tone six - Lightly Dismissive, betrayed by her insistence on looking everywhere but him. “My mom’s been doing really well lately and I’d like Violet to spend time with her before that changes. And Gabrielle’s been begging for a chance to practice while they’re still waiting for the adoption agency to come through.”

“Strategic separations are a vital part of any successful family unit,” he says. “And it would be worthwhile for her to experience different environments, learn to adjust to a new set of social mores without us there to help her navigate.”

She looks at him then, giving a brief, grateful smile, and a seed of unease grows in the pit of his stomach.

At six am on a Friday, he stands on the stoop while Watson buckles their child into her booster seat in the car Watson bought shortly before Science’s birth ( _“I refuse to depend on an ambulance or, God forbid, the subway if anything should happen. So what if it makes you feel bourgeois? In case you haven’t noticed, we live rent-free in real estate worth more ten times more than my entire education and you still get checks from your trust fund. That ship has sailed.”_ ). Science yawns as she blows kisses, promising to bring back baked beans. A reference he doesn’t understand, but he appreciates the sentiment. He returns her pledge with one of his own, to google it when he gets inside, and that’s how they say farewell.

Watson returns soon after the time Science usually has her lunch, far earlier than expected, considering that they’re between cases at the moment and opportunities to see her mother have been thin on the ground since Mary finally relented and made the move to Boston. He’s scarcely adjusted to the quiet when she comes back through the front door. 

Watson shrugs in response to his raised eyebrow. “They got tickets to a children’s music festival. They basically said hi and bundled her off.” She bends over to clear a few stray toys from the foyer and library. “Gabby’s really excited about this. To a slightly worrying extent, actually.” 

He nods, hoping the Watsons don’t expect Science to sit still for more than ten minutes, unless someone brought Lego. His daughter has emerged as something of a builder. Less concerned with taking things apart to see how they work than with putting the pieces together and finding her own way through trial and error, no interest in instructions. Her stubbornness surprises no one. 

Watson spends the next two hours on the phone. For the following three days, she is so consumed with private cases he rarely sees her out of the basement. On the fourth day, Bell brings them into a murder investigation, which turns out far less complicated than they originally thought. Watson pinpoints the murderer, Holmes finds the weapon, and Bell extracts a confession, all in the space of forty-eight hours. 

Uncomplicated does not always mean easily won, as was demonstrated in this case. In the end, Holmes is underslept and nursing a rather large dog bite on his left forearm. “Would make an interesting tale to relate to our child,” he remarks, as Watson finishes her inspection of the wound. “Assuming that we do, in fact, still have a child.”

Her jaw clenches mutinously, though the hands replacing his bandage remain gentle. Silence reigns until she's completed her task. “You said you were okay with her staying with my family,” she says, as she steps back, grasping her elbows. Tone three - Calculatedly Reserved. 

“It’s just that the greater the duration of exposure, the higher the likelihood Science will return extolling the virtues of a future in pharmaceutical representation. You yourself ‘went corporate’ for a period. The pull toward white-collardom lies dormant in her now--during our last conversation she confirmed she still wants to be an engineer on a space station--I’d prefer not to prompt manifestation.” Bringing up Gruner is a calculated risk. If he introduces too much fraught emotion into the conversation, she may walk out, forcing him to try again another time. But sometimes distress makes her more likely to let her guard down.

“It’s only been a week,” she says. The slight edge of defensiveness tells him to tread lightly. 

He softens his tone. “A week, with no end date.”

“Well, I…” 

When she starts rubbing her forehead, he knows he has her. “I’m all for inter-generational quality time, Watson, however. I object to your selling our daughter to a former ballerina and her salesman spouse.” She scoffs weakly. He lets that go. “It was clear that you needed a break, that you had some issue you needed to work through without the pressure of having to parent every hour of the day. But six and a half days have passed and all you have done is go about your life as though she were never born. I see no sign of resolution.” He fills his lungs, gaining steam, as she gives little hint of cutting him off. “You said once that I was not permitted to run away. The record will show that I have not. I am entitled to know why you’re hiding from your responsibilities. You haven’t made a practice of distancing yourself so overtly since- Oh.” 

Since Watson’s ex-boyfriend began choking and died in front of her. 

Even as he feels for her, his vision goes red. This is what she does, locks her pain in a box and pushes it to the furthest recesses of her mind where she can pretend it no longer exists. It seems to work quite well most of the time, but when someone or something lights the fuse and blows one of the boxes apart, she reacts, often without thought for the consequences. 

He pulls his arms tight against his sides and the sudden burst of pain from the dog-bite fuels his anger. “Your illusion of the control you exert is such that you blame yourself for the bloody polar vortex. And then, incomprehensibly, you behave as though the rest of the world should have assisted you in repairing something you had no power to fix.”

He exits out the front door without bothering to wait for a response, not realizing until three blocks have gone by that he left his keys. 

Just to be safe, he should call someone with lock picks. 

“Um. Yes. Alfredo? Good afternoon. …Right. Is it not afternoon?”

Two hours later, he descends the stairs to the kitchen. Watson is emptying the drying rack. Shortly after they agreed to send Science away, they gave Ms. Hudson the month off. He would have been happy to return to the bygone days of eating meals out of mugs, but Watson disagreed. “You’re back,” she says, as though status quo had never been disrupted. “Listen, I was looking over the Hallett case, and I saw something that might interest you.”

“How long were you thinking about leaving?” She turns, opening her mouth to protest and he rolls his hands, cutting her off. “Those years ago, after your…” The lack of movement in her chest indicates that she’s holding her breath. He chooses his next words carefully. “Our investigation into Le Milieu. You claimed you’d been considering moving out for quite a while, that it was 'time’.”

She nods slightly, her eyes narrowed with confusion. 

“Your phrasing implied a thread of discussion that had never occurred between us. Apart from the one…”

“That creepy serial killer.” She grabs a handful of silverware. “Bundsch. You told me you wouldn’t stop treating people however you saw fit, and I said I wouldn’t take that forever.” 

He nods. That’s not quite how he remembers it, but somehow her succinct summation feels accurate. “Is that when it started, the vague formulation of an exit strategy? Or was it earlier?” She takes in a sharp breath as though he hit a bruise she never knew she had. He pushes onward because she’s allowing him to. Forcing him to, more like. “I’ve wondered, on several occasions since that day you said it was time. Was there ever a point during those first two years that you felt you were at home?”

He waits her out as she sorts the knives and forks, and is rewarded when she slams the drawer shut. “Why are you asking me about this now?”

It is not an answer, He refuses to take it as such. “You have this capacity, Watson, for silently harboring misgivings, and not airing them until after having come to some sort of decision.”

“I’m not trying to make a decision, I’m just… struggling.” She runs shaking hands through her hair. “Is that not okay? Are we having a discussion about who is more impulsive and prone to hiding things, because-”

Alfredo warned him to expect lashing out. Holmes lets tone twenty-two (Accusatory and Derailing) roll down his back. “I have made a concerted effort, particularly since we agreed to raise a child together, to- to recognize the behavior patterns that cause harm and to do my best to eliminate or at the very least reduce them. Yes, I had more deficits to overcome. Are you saying you had none whatsoever? That during our regular conversations about learning from mistakes, only I ever need be the subject?” 

She furrows her brow. “No.” 

“You could have said you’ve been thinking of Andrew. I would not have argued against sending her away.” She shakes her head, supporting his hypothesis that she hadn’t examined her motivations. It was simply deeply-ingrained instinct which she never bothered to question, akin to putting on shoes before leaving the house. “Someone whose judgment I trust implicitly used to say that ignoring painful things is how one creates triggers.” 

“Sounds like a windbag,” she ventures quietly, in a blatant attempt to change the mood.

Holmes waits. She puts away the mugs. He waits some more. She gets rid of the saucers, then the bowls, and finally the plates. “Watson, I am respectfully asking that you talk to me.”

She twists the damp dish towel between her hands, glancing his way, but only for a moment. “What is there to say? You know everything.”

“I assure you that I don’t.” She unplugs her phone from the wall. He had been very mindful of her space this whole conversation, but now he moves in closer. “What are you doing?”

“Checking the traffic on I-90. Everything seems normal. If you leave in forty minutes, you’ll avoid rush hour.” She raises a hand to halt his protests. “No, look, it’s fine! Go bring her back. I’ll get a hotel room somewhere, take some time off. You know, like a vacation. Don’t pretend I don’t deserve one of those. Just for a week or two.”

She is cornered, surrounded on all sides, yet she’s still trying to extricate herself. Incredible. She holds the phone out. He leans in, pretending to read the screen, and takes the phone, placing it on top of the cupboard where she can’t reach. It’s petty, but he doesn’t care. “He was a good man who cared for you, was murdered because of you, and you cannot even admit that you still grieve his passing.”

She stares at him for a long time before her expression twists into a bitter smile. “Okay, you’re treating me like a suspect, and unlike them, I can walk out.” She pushes him aside and climbs onto the counter to retrieve her phone, then hops back down and begins to leave. “I’ll see you in two weeks. Go to Boston yourself, wait for me, it doesn’t matter. Do whatever you want.”

So she resents being spoken to like a criminal. He can think of something he would never say to one of them. “Watson, I love you.” He winces, realizing that he shouted. But it worked. He has her attention. “Not only because of our similarities, but our differences as well.” She stands at the foot of the stairs, barely breathing. “You prefer to work things out internally, keep your own counsel, and I do my best to respect that, hm? If I had any reasonable expectation that you would heal on your own, then I would cede to your demands. But when you return, you will still be in pain. You’ll only be more adept at pretending you aren’t.”

Letting her bag fall to the floor, she sits on the second step. He chooses his position to keep her in the corner of his eye. “The first thirty seconds were… the same,” she says, and he goes over all cold because he doesn’t actually have this tone categorized. He’s never heard this bleak, helpless, almost-croak before. “Of course, she didn’t stop breathing and fall to the floor, she just coughed and cried, a lot. But those first thirty seconds... backing away, t-touching her throat…” She laughs, forcing him to look over and notice the tears she isn’t bothering to push aside. “I thought I was gonna have a heart attack right there in the restaurant.”

She clears her throat. “This was nothing, I know, completely normal and mundane and happens to everyone. Next time, though? Sooner or later, someone will use her against me, or you, or both of us. There’s no making that okay, Sherlock.”

“True,” he concedes. He walks over to the table, wraps his fingers around the top of the chair, and drags it closer to the stairs. He removes his jacket slowly, hanging it on the back of the chair before he sits. She has not moved. “We shall think of something.”


	8. Whatever Remains Must be the Truth

There have been any number of reckless decisions in his life, Holmes thinks as he stares at the results of the experiment. This one, however, may surpass them all.

By far.

He immediately suppresses the thought and attends to the problem at hand. Clearly some mistake or contaminant has been introduced, and he must collect a new sample and run the test again. And again. And again.

Four hours, three litres of water, and fifteen identical results later, he can actually feel the blood draining from his cranium and has to lie down. He could not be a more absurd cliché. At least Watson isn’t here to have to catch him mid-swoon.

Watson.

Hmn.

He rests on the library couch, staring at the ceiling. She’s a scientist. Surely she’ll be able to grasp the significance of this breakthrough. And yet another life form he can name after her. She had no objections when he brought Clyde home, after all. She accepted Kitty readily enough. Mary’s deftly laid plaints about grandchildren could be swept aside at last.

There is the little matter of repurposing her genetic material without authorisation, but then she accepted the cheek swab when he wanted to test his new method for identifying blood type sans blood with nary a request to see a release form. If she was comfortable being so cavalier with her cells for one study… Not to mention the strands of hair liberally strewn across the bathroom on a daily basis. She practically gives it away, one might say. Although perhaps one might choose to be somewhat more circumspect, all things considered. And what a thing to consider…

Adrenaline jolts him upright, and he has to steady himself so he doesn’t topple onto the floor. What has he done? The next cliché pushes up into his gorge, but he refuses to acknowledge the nausea. No matter; nothing but invaluable scientific data will come of it. There is no problem here; this is after all a highly unstable situation that will resolve itself at any moment; in fact it may already be concluded. (It is disappointing not to be able to rely on his own senses to confirm; they should have included a biofeedback component from the start.)

When he informs his collaborator — ah, collaborators, the international team of researchers he consults by webcam in the media room, who else could he be imagining? — of the brief moments of success, they will be hysterical, no, ecstatic to the point that he’ll need to adjust the volume to save his eardrums, no doubt. All eager to determine how they’ll stretch the longevity of the next trial a bit further. After a few days to process the data and restore his innards to their natural alignment, he’ll let them move on without him. Gregson almost certainly will have a new case for them by then. This time next week, he’ll have stored it all away in box and brain attic with his other finished projects.

A few hours, a day at most, and the experiment will end itself.

But if it does not?

He swallows uneasily. One of his greatest assets as a scientist has always been his ability to hone in on promising lines of investigation hidden in obscurity. When they finalised this most recent procedure, he’d felt that familiar recognition of imminent success. At the time, he was focused only on the next step, and after all, the ultimate goal would depend on a near infinite cascade of successes. The complexity of the problem is almost inconceiv— He clears his throat. It’s most daunting. But each hurdle they crossed felt like vindication, not surprise. He knew it would work. He just didn’t know what that would mean. He still doesn’t, but that unknown suddenly envelops him like the cosmos, deep and dark and full of misgiving.

His interest in the experiment began with an online philosophical debate of the impossible and the improbable; two of his eventual research partners joined in and presented their work as a case study. They were roundly mocked, but he found their logic well-defined, and he followed them home, as it were, to continue the conversation. He persisted with the project to trace the transformation of impossible to merely improbable and back again.

From the moment he offered himself as the test subject he never had a second thought. Generally, willingness to experiment is another scientific asset, but narcotics and angry outbursts aren’t the only measure of his struggle with impulse control. He looks at the test results again. To say he didn’t think it through is an understatement. Viability was so far outside the bounds of what they were expect— He pauses to exhale loudly. Culpability was an entirely unnecessary consideration. And yet, as improbable as it should be, as impossible as these circumstances are, something new exists because of him. His actions had consequences, and while this is not a situation requiring amends _per se_ , he is responsible for what he’s done. Whatever the bloody hell that might require.

His imagination quails; he can’t think it yet. The improbably natural progression that utterly improbable blastocyst could follow. What might happen in the weeks or months — or more — ahead. And suddenly an impossible image in his mind, a silhouette of three people on the path in the park at the base of the Brooklyn Bridge, the two taller figures tilted toward the smaller one between them. A sentimental scene, a moment wholly outside his own personal experience. Terrifying and almost overwhelmingly compelling in the potential therein. His instinct for knowing where to follow an investigative lead buzzes with the possibility beckoning within those shadows.

If this train of thought persists, he _is_ going to be sick.

But oh‚ what a project! Until this moment an abstract hypothetical, rejected outright both on principle and in the specific; he had never cared to speculate, not even as a thought experiment. Parenthood would distract from the work, full stop. And only as incongruent a progenitor as his father would propose him as a viable candidate for reproduction, and then only for his own selfishly deluded ends. But now, finding himself transposed from the impossible to the improbable, it’s as if the polarity shifted, and he can see through walls previously opaque. Such potential for research and collaboration. For mentorship and teaching. For years….

His breath catches, and he gasps and coughs as if he’d aspirated water. He lurches to his feet and escapes to the kitchen. Something to eat might clear his muddled mind. He focuses on the flames under the kettle as he meditates, slowing his breathing along with his frantic thoughts. He reminds himself he’s under the influence of an unfamiliar hormone cocktail with known psychological side-effects. He’s merely having a bad trip. Once the experiment ends — and he knows it will, even as that certainty seems thin and brittle, it _will_ — it won’t matter what it might have meant.

His mind is full of misgiving and full of wonder. Both of which are entirely prematu— He presses his fingers against his forehead with exasperation. A future project will have to be linguistic analysis of words based on or irrevocably associated with gravidity. In any case, the point being that literally nothing will come of this. It’s a waste of mental energy to indulge in any of this conjecture.

The front door closes upstairs, and he turns off the burner. They only have caffeinated tea anyway. As her steps cross above him, he can recognise but one clear note of truth ringing through his discomposure, bringing the relief of its all too probable certainty.

Watson is going to kill him.


	9. Chapter 9

The first thing that catches Marcus’s eye is Holmes on the floor in the library, a baby draped across his shirtless torso and a blanket covering them both. Now, he’s gotten accustomed to seeing Holmes in all kinds of situations; this one isn’t even weird. Half his friends on Facebook have pictures like this, guys napping with their newborn. It seems like that’s why he can’t stop staring, though. The tableau sticks out because it’s so ordinary. If Holmes had been cuddling with a taxidermied extinct animal or the Heisman trophy, Marcus probably would have strolled right past.

Joan pulls at his sleeve. “Let’s take this to the basement,” she whispers. But before they take two steps, the baby starts stirring. Joan swoops in and scoops her up. “Oh, oh oh.” She readjusts the blanket around Holmes then makes double time out of the room, cooing and bouncing the baby a little. “Don’t wake Sherlock, baby girl,” she sing-songs. Not a “daddy” or “mommy” has escaped either of their lips since Marcus found out they were having a kid. Holmes said the labels are a form of needless indoctrination which he would have no part of, or something to that effect. Behind his back, Joan did that thing where she silently communicated her awareness of how outside the norm they were, with a side of how little she cared. She’s been doing that a lot more often the past six months or so.

“I can come back,” Marcus offers out of the side of his mouth.

Joan shakes her head. “Basement.” He follows dutifully.

She breathes an audible sigh of relief as she closes the basement door behind them. “About, uh…” She waves her hand above her head, indicating her sleeping partner. “They’ve been keeping each other up most nights. It’s been fun.”

Marcus squints. Keeping each other up. Why does that feel like it makes perfect sense?

“Let’s trade,” she proposes. A beat later, he’s holding the five week old and Joan is on the couch with her nose deep in his case file.

Cradling her head and neck with one hand, he lightly pokes one expanding cheek. “Taken on some mass since the last time I saw you, Sci. It’s a good look for you.” He glances at the top of Joan’s head. “Hey. You ever give her a real name?”

“Violet Katherine Hui Watsonia Forensic Science Holmes,” Joan mutters as she flips through the pages. She drops the folder on the coffee table and gestures at one of the medical examiner’s photos. “No way they’re the same killer. This one is at least four inches taller, and the wound pattern is different. Looks similar, but this was a machete. Not a sword.” She looks up to gauge his response, but he just blinks at her. “What?” She pops a shoulder. “Sherlock did all the heavy lifting here. I got veto power, but he likes naming things, so why not?”

“My sympathies for every first day of school for the rest of your life, kid.” Science stares at him, big brown eyes unwavering, before she busts out a dazzling, gummy smile. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, _damn_. That is dangerous. I’m serious. You could weaponize that.”

“Yeah, she just started that a couple days ago. I was hoping you’d get one.” Joan sounds pleased. Possibly she's smiling. The other lady in the room has his almost undivided attention. “Guess she likes you.”

Tiny baby fingers with surprisingly sharp nails wind around his pinky. “Is that right, Violet Katherine Huey Science Watson-Holmes?”

Joan’s laugh is one of those sounds he could stand to hear a lot more often. “It seems good taste runs in the family.”


	10. Chapter 10

Science is four years old, and Marcus has been roped into letting her “ride-along“ for his Sunday of running errands. 

At Barnes and Noble to grab a photography magazine (He has a passing interest. Enough to kill a couple of hours once in a blue, but not enough that he’ll spring for a yearly subscription) and get her a cake pop from Starbucks, Sci seems content to walk right by the kids’ section until she spies this

“That’s you?“ she says. They’ve explained several times how Marcus works with Holmes and Joan but has a different job, that he’s a police officer as well as a detective, which means he carries a gun and sometimes wears a uniform (”Also a consistent paycheck and a nice pension,” Joan once added wistfully.)

He nods. “Yeah, my uniform does sorta look like that. I’ll show it to you sometime.“ He politely waits a couple of seconds for her to move on to the next shiny thing. But her chubby fingers grab the bottom of the plastic bag and swing it back and forth, a little smile on her face, and she doesn’t move from that spot.

A dozen “Come on, Sci, kiddo, let’s go“s later, Marcus is laying the costume in front of the cashier along with his magazine and Science is beaming like someone just won the lottery in front of her and then handed her the winnings.

She wears it for the next two days solid, refusing to change into her pj’s, and even after Joan bites the bullet and endures the screaming by bodily undressing her, it’s still Science’s number one choice every day. Gregson is charmed and insists on getting a photo.

“Is this an appropriate juncture to start introducing the subject of police brutality into her education?“ Sherlock wonders. “While her worship of our colleagues and friends is endearing to witness, I can’t help a certain ambivalence. Alfredo’s expression was quite telling, for one.“

“I hate feeling like we’re indoctrinating her without even meaning to,“ Joan admits. “Kind of like…“ and Sherlock waits, but she only shakes her head.

That night, Joan calls everyone's attention to a rip in the sleeve of Science’s beloved costume and announces that for the suit’s own good, they should save it for Halloween only.

She wears it for the next three Halloweens.


	11. Chapter 11

They almost lost a suspect the first time they felt the baby move. The task-force leader relegated them to the back of the abandoned parking lot, just inside the doorway of a dilapidated shed, due to reports that the group they sought was armed. They’d get to shut the rear gate in the unlikely event anyone tried to flee in that direction, and Joan had had to elbow Sherlock twice to shut up his grumbling about irresponsible waste of expert resources. He crowded up behind her to wait and watch with growing impatience while the officers made their deliberate search of the premises. He limited himself to a bit of fidgeting and exasperated sighs at first. Then she felt three light taps against her back, like a reminder that she was supposed to do something.

“Hey! I don’t make the rules, Sherlock, stop pushing me.” She glanced back in irritation but they were too close together for her to see his face. “What is it? What can you see?” She stretched up on tip-toes, craning her neck toward the warehouse where nothing stirred, and twisted back to whisper at him over her shoulder. “Did you hear something? What?!”

Sherlock cleared his throat and stiffened abruptly just before she felt another nudge against her back, and then his hands slid across his torso between them, and she realized it hadn’t been _him_ poking her. She turned all the way around to see the shock she felt mirrored on his face.

“It really is the most curious sensation, Watson,” he said hoarsely, and reached out to take her hand and press her palm firmly to the side of the now unavoidable bulge below his ribcage. Nothing happened as they both stared at the back of her hand as it rose and fell with his diaphragm. After a moment she was aware of the grip of his fingers on her wrist, the heat of his body through his shirt and waistcoat, and faint tremors of heartbeat and muscle as they each strained to stay perfectly still. One minute stretched to three, but just before her self-consciousness was going to force her to pull away, she felt it, an uncanny ripple of movement unlike anything she’d ever experienced.

“Whoa! Have you felt that before?” She saw him shake his head in her peripheral vision, not able to stop staring at her hand as if it were a window through which she could see inside, as if seeing would make her believe. She realized she was holding her breath and let out a slow exhale through her mouth.

She thought she’d turned the corner on this a few weeks back when Sherlock was punched in the gut and they spent the night in the hospital listening to the fetal monitor. She’d accepted the commitment of a parent’s fear then, along with the public declaration of the pregnancy.

From the beginning they had ultrasound video and never-ending streams of numbers and terabytes of data recounting all the complex biology and chemistry in excruciating detail. But that was all remote sensing, information-by-proxy that remained largely academic, for her. Despite all the evidence, all the changes in Sherlock’s physiology and behavior, it still hadn’t felt real. Until now, when she finally, literally felt it. Their breaths caught simultaneously as something pressed up against her hand again.

No. Not something. Someone. That was their _child_ in there.

This was her first contact with her daughter.

Her vision blurred a bit, and she blinked rapidly to clear it. She tried to speak, but no sound emerged when she said “Sherlock,” and then the back door of the vacant office banged open and the suspect made a run for it down the alley away from where they stood, dumbfounded, too stunned to move until an officer’s shout startled them into action.


	12. [No!]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was originally part of Doubts Don't Deter Detectives III as [chapter 38](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4034770/chapters/10312167%22), posted on 8 august 2015; reader comments are still over there.

Joan had barely set her bag down before Sherlock was there. “I’m sorry Watson, but I just, I—“ He pushed the struggling baby into Joan’s arms and briefly cradled the back of Science’s head with his hand before stepping back and shaking out his arms. 

“Teething pretty bad today, Violet?” Joan adjusted her against her shoulder and rubbed gentle circles on her back. She thought Sherlock looked like he could use some soothing himself.

“She’s been crying while signing ‘no’ and ‘hurt’ and ‘stop’ in two languages for the past seven hours. Short breaks for meals and frozen chewing devices.” He took a deep breath, started to say more, and shook his head.

“I know,” Joan said. “I’m sorry the deposition took so long. Did you at least get a break at the meeting?”

“Child care was cancelled, so we didn’t go.”

“Oh Science, does it help at all to know how much we suffer with you?” She bounced the baby a little and judged she might be willing to sit on the floor for a minute while she put on pajamas. “We’ll go upstairs and change now. You're off duty.”

Sherlock nodded and headed toward the stairs to the kitchen. “Her linguistic development is remarkable, in any case,” he called over his shoulder. “Well on her way to trilingualism. I’ve got extensive notes on my observations. I thought perhaps we might introduce Mandarin as well.”

“And get my mother to offer to babysit. You’re a genius.” She smiled on her way up the stairs at the silence from below expressing his tacit agreement.


	13. Bees & Pestilence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by bulletproofbell pointing out that [“#surprise your loved ones with bees and pestilence” makes an excellent Elementary Valentine’s Day prompt](http://bulletproofbell.tumblr.com/post/139281134099/testchamber19-ncrrington-did-u-kno-that-st).
> 
> [originally posted to tumblr, 14 feb 2016](https://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/139331461458)
> 
> you, too, can have [plush toys inspired by microbial life forms](http://www.thinkgeek.com/product/6708/).

“I think maybe our friends know us too well,” Sherlock said with a faint air of resentment as he stared at the objects he’d arrayed on the table. Watson let her boots drop to the floor by the coat hooks one by one and walked stiffly into the lock room.

“No, I’m not taking responsibility for inspiring this: they know _you_.” Watson shook her head with a rueful smile. “They _really_ know you.” She picked up the dark grey oblong for a closer look, and then traded it for the rounder white one, frowning. “Why do they give them eyes?” she muttered, shifting her weight slowly from side to side.

“Because verisimilitude is hardly the first thing you look for in plush toys inspired by microbial life forms.” He picked up the turquoise penicillin and held it out at arms-length toward the plague and anthrax Watson had set back down. “I don’t think these are to scale,” he sniffed.

“If they were, the bees wouldn’t fit in the house.” Watson was now holding two black and yellow striped blobs, each with an inaccurate number of flopping appendages. She gave one a squeeze, and it started quietly buzzing.

He continued frowning at the stuffed things and released a resigned sigh. “I suppose for the time being Science is, shall I say, immune to the myriad misconceptions these so-called educational toys perpetuate.”

Watson glanced at the four-month old asleep in the carrier on the other end of the table with a smile. “You think?” The baby briefly scrunched up her face as if in agreement with Sherlock’s disapproval. One pale blue pajamaed foot stretched up from under the red fleece blanket covering her, and Watson adjusted it, resting one hand lightly on Violet’s torso and rubbing the side of her own neck with the other.

“As long as we identify them as toys and not use their scientific names, I suppose she should weather the exposure without undue harm.”

“You mean you want to give them nicknames?” Watson considered briefly. Annie, Penny, and Sindy? She held back a laugh.

“Surely that’s better than starting her off with patently inaccurate information. Alfredo’s not one for academic rigor, but honestly, I don’t know what Ms Hudson was thinking.”

“She was thinking of Valentine’s Day, and our daughter. And knowing that you’d disapprove of the usual trappings.”

He snorted.

“Oh come on, it was perfect. Pathogens and insects and a blood-red blanket? You couldn’t wish for a better Valentine’s Day.”

“That is true,” he said dryly. He did her the favor of not pointing out he’d never wished for any sort of Valentine’s Day.

They stood quietly, watching the baby. Watson drew her hand away, readjusting the blanket again. She checked her watch.

“Almost time for her bottle, yes,” Sherlock said. “I’ll get it.”

Watson looked up. “Why? It’s my shift.”

“Yes, but you’ll be otherwise occupied.”

“With what?” The doorbell buzzed and she jumped, giving him a suspicious glance. He gestured for her to get the door and slid the baby carrier’s handle to its upright position.

“We’ll be downstairs. Enjoy your evening.” He picked up the carrier and headed to the kitchen stairs. The doorbell buzzed again, and Violet woke to protest as they descended. Sherlock soothed her on the way down, “Shh, shh, Science, sometimes Watson is slow to respond, and we must be patient with her.”

Watson hesitated another moment before going to the door, wanting to resist his manipulation on principle. She peered through the viewer and blinked in surprise.

“Sumati, what—“ she started as she opened the door, interrupting herself from stating the obvious as her massage therapist hefted the case holding a portable table across her back and smiled in greeting.

“Hi Joan. I didn’t know this was a surprise, but obviously it is. Okay if I come in?”

“Yes, of course! Sorry.” She held the outer and inner doors open for Sumati and closed them as the other woman set the table case down and took off her coat. “I had no idea you were coming. Or that you made house calls.” She paused, considering. “Did Ms Hudson arrange this?”

“No, it was your partner. He set it up. Said you’d strained your back?”

“Um, yeah, I guess. Nothing serious, but…” She hadn’t mentioned it in front of him, she was sure. At some point she pulled something with the extra lifting since the birth and Sherlock’s recovery from abdominal surgery, and it never really got the chance to heal. Violet and her entourage of bags were only getting heavier with time. She’d stopped running almost two months ago from the discomfort and tried to remember to stretch at night, but it lingered. And Sherlock had noticed. Of course he had. And when she hadn’t taken care of herself, he intervened.

She coughed to clear her throat and wiped her eye, embarrassed by the sudden feeling. He drove her nuts thinking he knew best all the time. But every now and then it was really nice to have someone know you. Especially when he opted out of the “I told you so” part of the proceedings.

“Okay, then, do you have a bathtub?” Sumati looked up at the high ceilings and battered mouldings of the Brownstone. “House like this, must still have a tub, right?” Watson nodded. “Start the hot water, show me where to set up, and then you soak a bit while I get ready.”

“Best place would be upstairs,” Watson said, eyeing the large case with trepidation. “Sorry…it’s just one flight.”

“No worries, my place is a fourth-floor walk-up. This is nothing.” Sumati grinned. “Let’s get you sorted.”


	14. Nicknames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted to tumblr, 15 feb 2016](https://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/139366639618)

“But why?” Science sat cross-legged on the threadbare lock room carpet, her garish green and purple stripped tights a match only for Sherlock’s purple and green dotted feet visible as he sat next to her, facing the shallow box of partly assembled Tinker Toys. Watson didn’t know which of them had started the tradition with his socks, but it had gone on for over a year now and clearly delighted them both.

“Well some things are social habit, and don’t have any good reason behind them in the present day. It can be more efficient to play along rather than assert one’s individuality. That assertion becomes a distraction. Sometimes you want the distraction. But sometimes you don’t.

“As you know, some people call Watson Joan or Joanie or Miss Watson or Dr. Watson. You and I call her Watson. Some people refer to mothers or fathers or P.I.s. We prefer to say parent and consulting detective.” His eyebrows acknowledged the soft laugh from the study, but he didn’t look up. “Occasionally one can state one’s preference for how one wishes to be addressed, but that’s unfortunately not always possible. Or enforceable.” He nodded with exaggerated regret.

“What can people call me?”

“What do they already call you?”

“Violet and Science and Frensic Science and Sci. And Kid. And Ms Hudson used to call me Bar-nocle but she doesn’t any more ‘cause I’m too big.”

“And do you have a preference?”

Science scrunched up her face, considering. “What else could people call me?”

“Hmm, let’s begin with your full name, as is the most common starting point. You already mentioned Violet but there’s Vi. Lettie, I suppose. Katherine or Kat, Kate, Kathy. Kitty, of course. Hui… I’m actually not familiar with any variations, we shall have to inquire. Watsonia is itself a variation. Forensic Science needs no abbreviation, but For Science will do.” He slapped his palms on his thighs, quickly finishing, “And we’ve already discussed the rest.” He shifted forward to rise off his knees, but a small hand poked his thigh to forestall his escape, and he sank back down with resignation.

“You forgot one.”

“No, I just prefer not to repeat myself, since we both know what it is.”

“But someone could call me that. If I wanted.”

Sherlock hefted a large sigh. “Yes. If you wanted.”

“So you have say it.” She bounced a little.

Watson caught his fleeting glare as she shook silently at her desk, half convulsed with mirth. He closed his eyes briefly, straightened his back, and schooled his face into calmness before replying. He swallowed and got another nudge.

“Say it,” she insisted, face bright with anticipation.

“Holmes, you mean. I am sometimes called Holmes, and you could be too.”

“No, no what else?” She wriggled, clutching her hands together.

“I’m sure I don’t—“

“Yes you do!”

“Yes, yes, all right.” He cleared his throat and rolled his eyes theatrically. ”Homie,” he said with a clownish frown, looking down into her happy face, and Science clapped.

“Homie,” she agreed, and hugged his arm with both of hers.


	15. Before Breakfast

Lin took the ultrasound image Joan handed her, perplexed, and glanced at her sister. “Is about this your current case?” She gave the glossy sheet a little wave. “It is a human baby, right, not an alien? Or a tumor?” Joan just blinked slowly, her usual "I shall reveal nothing" face revealing that there was something to reveal. Lin frowned at the picture and what had to be a Watson thing about making it super obvious you were witholding information you actually wanted to share. God, it better not be a tumor. Then she spotted the patient's name in the garble of tiny text in the upper left corner. It said Holmes. Her jaw dropped.

"Get. OUT." She looked at the photograph again, aghast. "You got married and took his _name_?!?”

“Seriously? That’s your first question?" The amusement on Joan’s face was startling. Not a tumor, then.

Lin put up a hand. "I can only process one impossible thing at a time." It would have been different if Joan had already had kids when they met. But this just didn't make any sense for the sister she thought she'd gotten to know pretty well. She took a deep breath. "Okay. You're having a kid. With Sherlock?" After years of extracting the history of Joan’s air-quote-whatever-air-quote with Sherlock one syllable at a time, she was pretty sure it couldn't be any other Holmes. But she was still one step behind actually facing the reality of her sister having a baby _now_.

Joan took a deep breath. “We didn’t get married, and I’m not pregnant,” she said.

Lin frowned. "Come on. What's this about then? Who the hell else would marry him? Is his crazy-rich family royalty or something, the sort that only pairs off with its own?" She shook the photo. "Is this some Holmes cousin and they both need an heir to inherit?” She narrowed her eyes and lowered her voice. "Is it a green card thing?"

Joan started laughing. Lin made a face, frustrated. "You said you had some family news. What does this have to do with it, then?"

"Are you ready for the next impossible thing?" Joan was suddenly serious again. "This picture is a few months old now. We didn't— I couldn't—" She bit her lip, and Lin felt her stomach drop. Miscarriage? One-night-stand gone wrong? Surrogate suing for custody? Were they breaking up whatever the hell they had? Should she offer Joan a hug? She took half a step forward.

"Joan," she started.

"Sorry, no, it's nothing bad.” Joan looked contrite, then pained. “Or not so far. It's just, well. Like you said." She reached over and lightly touched the image with her finger, and Lin figured the glimmer in her eyes must be a trick of the light. "Impossible."


	16. Tax Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> originally posted to tumblr [28 January 2016](http://beanarie.tumblr.com/post/138227817958/ficlet-tax-day)  
> (the first part of a larger thing ~~that i may or may not ever finish~~ in the for science ‘verse. tldr: joan  & sherlock have a kid together and they call her science. as a family, they pursue knowledge in all forms and revel in their eccentricities. happy belated birthday to my writing partner @amindamazed <3)

“This isn’t what I asked for.”

“I respectfully disagree. You said you wanted the gas expenditures for last year and those are labeled quite prominently.”

“Right thing. Wrong year.” As Watson sighs, her hand moves restlessly on the table. She watches him watching her, frown deepening, and then she gives in and does what she wanted to in the first place. She rubs her leg.

Feeling the strong telepathic dare to comment, Holmes says nothing. She hasn’t taken a single dose of pain medication since last night, lest her thoughts get clouded on Tax Day. That’s none of his affair. He believes she has been looking forward to this. Watson took over the revenue documentation-related duties of their partnership just after she first returned to the brownstone, being drawn to the tables, numbers and clear instructions. She finds the process satisfying somehow, as though divining the correct forms to use were part of an investigation. He thinks she’s also attracted to the notion of beating their disparate finances into printable submission, imposing order from a bit of chaos. And her life has gotten increasingly chaotic of late.

Science barrels into the tableaux, bodily smacking into the chair Watson is occupying. She aims a tiny spray bottle at Watson’s mouth and Watson obediently sticks out her tongue to accept the fine blue mist. “Okay,” the eight year old announces, “Now you talk like Sherlock!”

The British accent breath spray was a gift, of sorts, from Alfredo. For three days, Science has taken great enjoyment in attacking everyone in their circle with this gag, except Holmes. It’s been decided by general agreement that Marcus has made the most plausible attempt. Gregson, the least.

Watson’s British accent has turned out to be less of an assault to everything Holmes holds dear, but he still inwardly cringes at the ensuing Mary Poppins impression. “Tea and crumpets,” she trills, “Spoonful of sugar!” A few of the pain lines around her eyes have lightened for the moment. “Queue, shhhedule, her majesty’s secret service.”

“Word salad two months after a head injury? Perhaps we should send you back to the hospital for further testing,” Holmes mutters.

Watson wrinkles her nose at him and pokes Science under the ribs, making her shout a denial and run out of range. “Oi, get my paperwork, mate!”

Holmes snatches the spray out of the front pocket of Science’s overalls and pretends to read the label. “Not to worry,” he says over his child’s mutinous look. “I’m just checking to see how long this lasts.”

She reclaims her property. “It’s not real, Sherlock. It’s just a joke.”

Holmes directs a glare toward Watson. “You mean to say she subjected us to that on purpose.”

Science laughs so hard she doubles over.


End file.
